This Rake of Mine (18 page)

Miranda pulled her shawl tighter.

Tell him… tell him the truth
, the very walls of the house seemed to whisper.

Oh, perhaps she owed him that much. She'd set him free, and she'd be free as well.

And if he wanted to kiss her, well then…

Miranda came to a faltering stop. There would be no kissing. None whatsoever, she told herself sternly. She would tell him the truth and then continue on to her new life in Kent. Where she could spend the rest of her life hiding. Or building a tower…

Goodness, she needed to get out of this house, or she'd be as mad as a good portion of the Tremont clan.

From down in the dark recesses of the house came a sound that drew her out of her reverie and sent a chill of fright running down her spine. So much so, that she clutched the railing to keep from tumbling down the stairs like poor Isolda.

For there from the library, came the echo of voices raised in anger.

That would not have been enough to stop her, if it hadn't been for the fact that one of the voices rising in heated argument was female.

A woman?

"What do you mean, you don't have the money?" Jack was saying, his deep voice carrying through the thick door. "How am I to pay Dashwell without the gold you promised?"

"Jack, dear, I did my best," the lady replied.

A woman? He had a woman in there? And he was demanding money from her?

Miranda pressed her lips together. Sir Norris had the right of it. Jack Tremont was no gentleman.

"Your best is not good enough," he was saying. "You promised to have the money in a sennight, and that time, madame, has come and gone."

"I can't very well conjure a fortune out of thin air," the lady shot back. "Besides, I have it on good authority that we are being watched. It isn't as easy to come and go as it was."

"Being watched? Nonsense. There is no one about."

He paused for a moment, and Miranda felt a renewed chill in her veins.

No one but the unexpected arrival of a spinster and three girls
, Miranda drew a slow and steadying breath. Surely he didn't think they had anything to do with his problems.

Whatever those may be.

Miranda's curiosity drew her closer, down a few more steps. She told herself she needed to discover the truth of this mystery if only to ensure that the girls didn't become embroiled in some scandal. But honestly, what she wanted to know was the truth about Jack.

"There is your husband," he was suggesting. "Surely, my good Mrs. Pymm, he has the money?"

"Oh, now I'm 'Mrs. Pymm' to you! That's a fine state of things between us."

"Don't think," he shot back, "you can use our familiarity to get out of your obligations."

The lady was married? And owed Jack a fortune?

The small measure of vindication Miranda felt—for she'd suspected all along something wasn't right about this house—also left her feeling more than a little piqued.

What did she expect? Once a rake…

Jack's voice rose again. "My gold, Mrs. Pymm. With no more arguments, no more delays."

But what could he need gold for? Blackmail? Debts? She glanced toward the windows and thought about his nightly forays. With the Channel at his back, perhaps he was up to his neck in smuggling.

She slowly slid down the rest of the stairs, keeping to the shadows, her gaze riveted on the library doors as Jack continued his tirade.

"That parsimonious old bastard you married has the money. I know it and you know it. How can you come here saying you don't have the gold I need? I've been more than patient with you on this, but I will not be pushed for much longer. There is too much at stake."

There was another exchange, but Miranda couldn't hear it, so she drew closer.

Felicity's
Chronicles
were forgotten; her fears of him reading the now seemingly innocuous musings of a schoolgirl were far removed from the drama being played out in the room beyond.

"My darling boy, I'll get you the money, but not until I know that you have—"

Miranda stepped even closer still, only to find Mr. Jones looming out of the shadows and into her path.

"Where you going there, miss?" he said, catching hold of her.

"Unhand me," she told him, struggling to get out of his grasp. She pointed at the door. "I heard… that is…"

The voices inside the library immediately stilled. Miranda's heart lurched as the door opened. What did she care if Jack had another man's wife in his house—other than the general impropriety of the situation?

But for a thousand reasons, none of which she understood, she did care. Suddenly and deeply. He was in there with a married woman. From whom he was extorting a fortune in gold.

What had her father said when he'd sent her away?
Once a rake, always a rake. He'll run through your money and break your heart
.

But for all her wild imaginings of what she was about to witness, to her amazement out came Jack strolling casually as if nothing were amiss. His eyes widened at the sight of his secretary holding her at bay.

"Mr. Jones, what is the meaning of this?" he asked. "Unhand Miss Porter. Immediately."

"But she was about to—"

"Bruno!" he said. "Release her!"

The big man heaved a meaty sigh and reluctantly started to let go.

Miranda shook herself out of his lingering grasp.

"Miss Porter, is there a problem?" Jack asked, as if he were suddenly the most caring and attentive of hosts.

She ignored his question and pushed past him, flying into the library, half afraid of what she was going to find.

Or rather whom.

But to her shock, the room was empty.

The great throne still sat in the corner. The shelves of books lined the walls. His desk, cluttered with account books and correspondence, lay before her.

And there was no one in sight.

She spun around. "Where is she?"

His brow rose in a quizzical arch. "Where is who?"

She paced around the room, looking behind the throne, under his desk.

"Where have you hidden her?"

"Miss Porter, I don't know what you are talking about. I was just working on my accounts when I heard your voice in the hall."

Her hands went to her hips. "Lord John, I know what I heard. And I heard a woman's voice. Inside this room. And you were arguing with her."

He had the temerity to shake his head. "My dear Miss Porter, I make it a rule never to argue with a lady. Perhaps you were just imagining—"

"My lord, I am not prone to fancies."

He swept a glance from the top of her chignon to the tips of her worn slippers. "I don't suppose you are."

Miranda sucked in a deep breath. And she'd been considering setting this wretch free.

She glanced around the library again, and this time her gaze fell on the window. A large one that she suspected led to the gardens.

Crossing the room in a flash, she tugged the curtains aside and began struggling to open it. She pulled and tugged at the sash, but the window held fast.

The rogue came over to her shoulder. "Miss Porter, if you need air, I should advise you to go out the front doors. That window probably hasn't been opened in a century."

Miranda let out a groan of frustration. "What have you done with her?"

Lord John shot a befuddled glance at his secretary, who wore an equally confused look. "Miss Porter, perhaps the day has been a little trying for you. Why don't you sit down and I'll have Mr. Jones fetch you a restorative."

"I do not need a restorative," she shot back. "Where have you hidden her?"

When neither of them answered her, she went back into the foyer and examined the front door, which was still barred and locked for the night.

From behind her, Jack said, "As you can see, the only woman down here is you." He pushed off the door and walked over to her. "And what is it that brings you out of the sanctuary of your room, Miss Porter?" His eyes raked over her again, and there was a slight smile to his lips.

She looked around and realized that Mr. Jones was suddenly nowhere to be seen. He'd melded back into the shadows from which he'd appeared earlier, which meant she'd been left alone with Jack.

Alone with the rake.

"If you must know," she said, "I came down because Felicity forgot her notebook and was concerned about its welfare."

She dodged past him and retrieved it off the sideboard, holding it up for him to see, so as to prove her point.

"Must be something awful important in there to get you to come sneaking down here to fetch it. Care to share the contents with me?"

"Certainly not!" she told him tartly, at the same time tucking it safely behind her back. "This is Miss Langley's private journal and not meant for public enjoyment."

He shrugged, then grinned and tried to peek around her.

Miranda backed up until she bumped into the wall and found herself trapped.

Jack leaned in close, so close Miranda could see the beginnings of rough stubble on his chin, feel the heat of his breath upon her brow. Her body, unwilling to listen to reason, to remember that he was a rake of the worst kind, seemed to be having a regular celebration at his proximity.

An alarming thread of desire ran through her veins. Her thighs tightened as he drew closer. Her heart beat noisily, like the town crier eager to awaken her every nerve.

"Tell me about him," he was saying. It wasn't really a request but an order.

"About wh-wh-o-o?" she stammered.

"Him. The one missing the button."

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on his jacket, on the plain buttons hanging there by frayed threads. "He is of no consequence."

At least he was now… the devious wretch.

"Miss Porter, you are many things, but a good liar is not one of them." He came closer still. "Tell me about this man who haunts you still."

"He does no such thing. Like I said, he was of no—"

"Did he kiss you?"

"Wha-a-t?"

"Kiss you?" he asked, staring at her lips. "Do you still remember his kiss?"

With one hand clutching the
Chronicles
, her other went to her lips. She shook her head.

Jack grinned. "So he kissed you."

"It was only once," she blurted out, trying to find a way around him. He stuck his arm up and planted it on the wall next to her. Beside her, the sideboard kept her locked in place. "Only once, and like I said, it was of no—"

"Must have been some kiss for you to keep his button."

"Lord John—" Miranda protested. The hallway had suddenly grown terribly warm—from the heat of his body pressed so very close… and the memory of his kiss, which had always left her feeling flushed… and flustered…

"Jack," he told her.

"Wha-a-t?" She looked up at him, but it was hard to really look at him and not stare at his lips.

Those dangerous, kissable lips.

"Call me Jack."

"That would hardly be proper."

"I think you left proper upstairs when you decided to come wandering about my house in the middle of the night."

This time his words caressed, they teased, and they offered something that Miranda knew was better left alone.

The last time he'd kissed her, he'd ruined her.

What more could a man do to a woman?

Miranda gulped. She had to imagine that if anyone was capable of answering that question, it was Jack.

And then to her consternation, he showed her.

"Come closer, Miss Porter," he whispered, his eyes dark and full of smoky promise. "I wager I could give you a kiss that would turn your faithless lover into nothing but a distant and poor memory."

Miranda wavered under his mesmerizing spell. He was testing her, teasing her.

He was distracting her.

Distracting her?

Miranda stiffened. The wretched fiend was deliberately distracting her. As he had been all evening.

It certainly explained his sudden transformation from boorish lout to affable host.

Oh, yes, the grand stories, the carefully guided tour through his house, a bit of flirtation, all orchestrated so she wouldn't notice the incongruities.

The secretary who looked like a pugilist, the too-proper London butler. No housekeeper, no regular maids about. And what about the gentleman himself? A man who rode about the countryside at all hours? Lived in ramshackle poverty, when his charm had once made him the darling of Society? The sort who demanded a fortune in gold from a married woman?

And she'd defended him to Sir Norris.

Been about to tell Jack… never mind what she'd been about to tell him.

Miranda had never felt such a fool. Jack Tremont was the most despicable rake who'd ever lived.

"Get out of my way," she said, trying to nudge past him.

He closed the gap between them, his mouth dipping down toward hers. "Miss Porter, I thought we were reaching an accord, an understanding—"

She didn't let him finish. Instead, her free hand planted itself on his chest and gave him a good shove. It was enough of a surprise to knock him off balance, but only slightly, and not enough to give her the space she needed to escape. So she pulled out Felicity's
Chronicles
and put them to a better use than matchmaking.

She brought the thick notebook down on his head, where it landed with a solid
thump
.

"I'll breathe my last before I am cozened by the likes of you, Mad Jack Tremont," she said as she shoved past him, crossed the foyer in a flash of muslin, and took the stairs two at a time.

Miranda didn't know what deviltry was about this house, and she didn't care. They'd be gone at first light, and with every mile she gained between herself and Thistleton Park, she'd utter a prayer of thanksgiving that she hadn't ended up married to this bounder.

But when she reached her door, she paused for a moment and looked back into the darkness behind her, her heart still pounding with the last remnants of the desire he'd teased so expertly from her.

For all her indignation, all her moralistic ranting, deep down inside, she knew that the worst of it was that she had desperately wanted him to kiss her.